Widows' Watch (21 page)

Friday, October 8, 10:05 A.M.

A maid answered the door, looking like an Aztec maiden incongruously clad in a black uniform with a white apron. Elena introduced herself, showed her badge, and asked to see the lady of the house. She spoke first in English, then in Spanish to be sure she got her message across, making clear that she was not la migra, the Border Patrol.

“La mujer policia?” asked the maid, dubious. “La señora eez having breakfast an' don' like to be eenterrupted.”

Elena insisted. Looking resigned, the maid left Elena at the door and disappeared down a hall paved in gray-green flagstones. Elena wondered how much they cost. Her living-room floor would look great with this kind of flagstone, and maybe some Navaho rugs. Not that she could afford a Navaho rug. She wondered if Harmony could make one. The maid appeared at the end of the hall and beckoned to Elena. She was taken to a sunny breakfast room with windows on three sides, looking out on a beautifully landscaped yard. Good grief! These people must pay hundreds a month in water bills to keep enough moisture on that kind of shrubbery.

The owner, angularly thin, deeply tanned, wearing a peach kimono with exotic, hand-painted Japanese designs, nodded Elena to a chair. Her hair was blond, a nice color but probably not natural, waved back from the face. The hairdresser who cut and set it undoubtedly charged more than Elena's monthly water bill. She sat down on a bamboo chair with peach- and green-flowered cushions, across a bamboo and glass table from the lady of the house.

“Would you care for a cup of coffee?” the woman asked.

Because the coffee smelled so exotic, Elena nodded and introduced herself.

“Conchita, café au lait for la mujer policia, por favor.” Conchita went off to get a cup and saucer while the woman introduced herself as Lucia Barbieri.

The name Barbieri rang a bell with Elena. She thought he'd been the mayor of Los Santos ten years ago. There had been some big fuss about his having thrown city contracts to a friend in construction. Could the late Porfirio Cox have been the beneficiary? The scandal was before Elena's time, but Frank had pointed out Barbieri was an example of local skulduggery among the well-to-do.

“Mrs. Barbieri, nice to meet you,” said Elena.

Conchita returned with a china cup and saucer so translucent, Elena could see the maid's fingers through it. The coffee was poured from a matching pot, and Elena took an appreciative sip. “I'm investigating the murder of your neighbor, Porfirio Cox.”

“That's years ago, and I assure you my husband had nothing to do with it, no matter what problems Porfirio may have caused us in the past.” Mrs. Barbieri cut a small piece from her serving of French toast, chewed it, and said, “I'm surprised to find the police following up on a case that old.” She sipped from her own cup. “I myself wasn't home the day Cox died. Neither was Anthony, my husband. He wasn't even in Los Santos. But I can assure you, it caused a lot of anxiety here on Rim Road. Our first murder, at least since I've lived here.

“Let's see. What else? Porfirio was a dreadful man. I never understood why Anthony liked him. Of course, we were all pleased for Marcia.”

“Pleased?”

“That he was dead,” said Mrs. Barbieri.

“Mrs. Cox didn't care for her husband?”

“Who knows?” said Lucia Barbieri with a delicate shrug. “She stayed with him. I guess she must have felt something for him. Or maybe she was just afraid to leave.”

“I see. Could you explain that?”

“Well, I don't like to tell tales, but Marcia spent her life covered with bruises. She never said anything, never complained about him. Lovely woman. Dead now, unfortunately.”

“You're saying she was a battered wife?”

“She had the classic signs. Sunglasses at night. Long sleeves when the weather was hellishly hot, dark hose in summer. Sometimes she wouldn't answer her door when you knew she was at home. Goodness, woman, didn't you see The Burning Bed or any of those specials?”

“I know a fair amount about it without watching TV.”

“I suppose you do. Crimes Against Persons, you said? I myself saw a burn on her hand once. Ugly. I asked how she got it. I suppose that wasn't very tactful. She said it was a grease burn; she'd got it frying chicken. Well, I ask you! Marcia never fried chicken. She had a cook to do that. I doubt if they even ate fried chicken. He was part Hispanic—his mother. Hispanic women don't fry chicken. And Marcia was a Yankee. From Providence, Rhode Island. Yankees don't eat fried chicken.”

Mrs. Barbieri dabbed her mouth with a linen napkin that matched the upholstery on the bamboo chairs. “That was a cigarette burn, perfectly round, just the right size. And Marcia didn't smoke, but Porfirio did. Not to mention the fact that he was a mean person. I'm a bit of a detective myself, don't you think?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Elena, finishing her coffee.

“So there you are. Battered woman. Of course, in a neighborhood like this you don't hear screams or people slamming against walls, so there's no excuse to call the police. And the neighbors wouldn't like it if you did. Nobody wants police cars and flashing lights right on the street.”

Mrs. Barbieri poured herself another cup of coffee. “Porfirio had a terrible temper. If someone set him off at the country club, he'd shout and curse, act like he was going to get physical. He was accused of assault by two of his workers. He bought them off, of course. I will say he never hit anyone at a party, but I'll bet he hit Marcia as soon as they got home.”

Elena had taken out a pen and notebook to jot down Lucia Barbieri's remarks.

“The two of them met in architecture school at Rice University in Houston,” she continued. “I'll bet she wished she'd never gone there to study. They both got degrees, and he became an architect and contractor here in Los Santos—this was his home town—but he never let her practice. Always bragging about how talented she was, but he didn't want any wife of his working. Wives were supposed to stay home. Dreadful man. Well, I am going on. And I don't suppose that's even what you wanted to know.”

“Actually, that is what I wanted to know, Mrs. Barbieri. Were you questioned by the police at the time of the murder?”

“Of course.”

“Did you mention anything like this to them?”

“They didn't ask. You asked, so I told you.” She eyed Elena narrowly. “The police don't really care about domestic violence. Well, I can tell you I wouldn't let my husband treat me that way. I'd leave. I'd have him in jail before he could say boo.”

Elena nodded but wondered if Mrs. Barbieri really had any idea what it was like to live with a violent man. Putting him in jail, leaving him—either could be a surer way of getting killed than staying.

“Marcia was a fool to put up with it,” said Mrs. Barbieri.

Lady, you ought to talk to Chantal Brolie before you go around passing judgment, thought Elena. “We know that Marcia Cox didn't kill her husband, that she was at the Socorro Heights Senior Citizens Center on the day he died.”

“Oh yes, the center. I never could understand why Marcia kept going there. They weren't really quite her class of people.”

“Did she say what she was doing there that afternoon?”

“Playing bridge. Can you imagine? If she wanted to play bridge, there are plenty of us here on Rim Road who'd have been delighted to accommodate her.”

“Did she belong to a regular bridge group at the center?”

“No, I think she was sitting in for someone. It was the first time I ever heard her mention playing bridge there. She knew the game but didn't play much. Probably too embarrassed to show up wearing sunglasses, afraid her bruises might show. Do you know, one time I saw her with missing teeth. The two front ones on top—gone. She got a bridge, of course, but she looked terrible for a few weeks. She said she'd fallen and knocked them out. I didn't believe that! He probably hit her in the mouth. Dreadful man. He was always talking about some medal the Pope gave him. As if we cared about the Pope.”

“Did she say who she was playing with that afternoon?”

“I wouldn't remember names of people I'm never likely to meet socially.”

“Was there ever any talk that she was seeing a man at the center?”

“A lover, you mean? Surely not.”

Elena heard a distant ringing. The maid came in, plugged a green telephone into a wall jack, and handed the receiver to Lucia Barbieri. “Hello . . . Melanie? . . . How lovely to hear from you. Hold on.” She put her hand over the receiver. “Was there anything else?”

“I guess not. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Conchita.” Mrs. Barbieri waved a graceful hand, indicating that the maid should show Elena out. “Melanie, I hope you're calling to tell me that you did well on your first round of tests . . . You haven't had any tests? My goodness, you've been there over a month . . . Oh yes, sorority rush. I'd forgotten. . . .”

That was the last Elena heard as she followed Conchita over the gray-green flagstones. “Gracias,” she said as the maid opened the door.

“De nada,” replied the young woman politely, and then Elena was outside, looking once more across the urban vista. She went to other houses along the street but gained only one more interview, this with Philburn Cross, a retired lawyer, a prissy-looking man of seventy-five or eighty. He said, “People of our class don't abuse their wives.”

Elena doubted that he actually believed that. Still, she'd got good information from the Barbieri woman. Marcia Cox had been abused, and now Elena knew that four out of four widows had been playing bridge at Socorro Heights when their husbands were killed—as substitutes, not regulars. Good lord, she thought, and went over in her mind the women of the bridge group with whom two of the incipient widows had played: Margaret Forrest, Portia Lemay, Emily Marks, and Lydia Beeman. A conspiracy of senior citizens to eliminate abusive husbands? To protect battered wives? She couldn't imagine any of those women killing anyone. Or hiring a hit man. But they might have passed information on to Tyler. With or without realizing what he did with it. Was he also using the bridge players to provide alibis for the soon-to-be widows?

Friday, October 8, 12:35 P.M.

After lunch downtown at a sandwich shop, Elena went to the Los Santos Times to read obituaries and clippings in their library. Marcia Cox had no relatives in Los Santos at the time of her death, but Porfirio had two brothers and a sister, whose names Elena took down. If they were still alive, she'd interview them about the relationship between their brother and his wife. Then she looked up the obituaries of Frances and Herbert Stoltz. The couple had had a son and daughter, neither of whom lived in Los Santos. Herbert Stoltz was a military man, graduate of West Point, officer in the Second World War, the Korean War, winner of medals for valor.

Elena nodded. Those had been stolen at the time of his death. She thought back over her list of victims. Porfirio Cox's papal medal had been taken; so had Hank Brolie's N.R.A. medals, Jose Castro's Empress Carlotta ring and school district watch, and Boris Potemkin's czar's medal. It was as if the murderer had been stealing their claims to recognition, their accomplishments or the accomplishments of their ancestors. But so far the missing medals were the only things she had to connect Herbert Stoltz to the others, except for the time, setting, and nature of his death, and the type of weapon with which he'd been killed. Not that the weapons were all the same, but they were all thought to be World War II side arms, none recovered. Possibly war souvenirs. Had T. Bob Tyler fought in World War II?

She read more of the obituary. Herbert Stoltz had been active in the V.F.W. after his retirement. So had Boris. Elena wondered if they had known one another and if Tyler had belonged to their post. Stoltz was a volunteer in the United Fund drive, member of the Los Santos Historical Society, seemingly a good citizen—except for the killing of his wife.

She began reading about the death of Frances Stoltz. Not a whole lot here that she hadn't found in the police report. The husband's lawyer claimed that Herbert Stoltz had killed Frances in a moment of anguish because she was planning to leave him. Nowhere did it say why she wanted to separate. The lawyer said Colonel Stoltz planned to kill himself after he killed her but had had a “cerebral incident”—did that mean a stroke?—out of which he emerged unsure of what had happened. He'd called the police himself to report his wife's death. There was a trial, and he got probation.

In the obit of Frances Marshall Stoltz, Elena struck gold. Frances had been a graduate of the Arland School in Los Santos, a private girls' school. Elena remembered her mother saying that all the women in the bridge group had gone to a private girls' school in Los Santos. Probably the same one from which Frances graduated. They must have known one another, Elena thought, excited. She didn't know exactly how old the other women were, but Frances, had she lived, would have been in her mid-seventies now, which was what Beeman, Lemay, and Forrest looked to be.

Frances had been active in children's causes, the Red Cross—and there it was! She had been a member of the Socorro Heights Senior Citizens Center. The adrenaline surged through Elena's veins. Next of kin—Herbert Stoltz; a son and daughter, Paul and Tabitha Stoltz, and a sister—bingo! Emily Marshall Marks. Emily, the youngest member of the bridge group, had been Frances' sister. Emily, who had told Elena that Lydia Beeman took her into the group after the death of her sister, with whom Lydia had been lifelong friends.

Could those two, Lydia and Emily, have got together to exact justice from Herbert, then gone on to see that other men were stopped before they could murder their wives as Herbert had killed

Frances? Had Margaret and Portia, longtime friends of Lydia and Frances, looked on Emily, the bereaved sister, as a sister of their own? Had they been in on it too? A conspiracy of old ladies? But had they done the shootings themselves—one going off with a gun while the others protected the abused wife by engaging her in a bridge game? A sort of neighborhood watch program for widows? Good lord, it was as strange as anything Elena had ever run into.

Or had they used T. Bob Tyler? At the protest, Tyler had attacked a cop because he thought the patrolman was trying to hurt Emily. Maybe he had been in love with Emily—unrequited because she was so crazy about her husband. Only in the last two years had Tyler transferred his affections to Dimitra, his dancing partner, whose company he lost when Boris pushed her down the stairs. Another motive for murder in a man obsessed with women. But that didn't explain the other murders.

Elena returned the clipping files to the newspaper librarian and had material pulled on the brothers and sister of Porfirio Cox, then went to her car. Her next step was to interview the Cox family, of which Porfirio had been the eldest sibling. The next oldest was Arnoldo Cox, who owned a printing company on Texas Street.

“I'm looking into the relationship between your late brother and his wife,” she said, once she'd talked her way past his secretary and introduced herself.

“I don't see that that's any of your business,” said Arnoldo, scowling.

Elena scowled back. “Did he abuse her?”

“Of course he didn't. Marcia hasn't got any complaints coming. Did she say something to the police?”

“She's dead,” said Elena.

“I mean before she died. The woman got every cent he had and then, stupidly, moved off Rim Road. If she'd held that house another ten years, it would have been worth a million and a half.”

“I take it you didn't like Marcia.”

“She was all right. Snobbish. Came from back East. Anglo. Porfirio would have done better to marry like I did. Someone like our mama.”

“Uh-huh.”

“While you're looking into his murder, maybe you'll find that medal from the Pope. As the eldest surviving brother, it should go to me. Give me a call if you find it.”

For the next brother, Carlos Cox, she had to leave her car and gun with customs at the border because Carlos was an executive in a maquiladora that made electronic parts. She took a cab into Mexico.

“I don't know,” said Carlos. “He may have hit her a few times. So what?”

“Often, would you say?”

“It's a little late to arrest him for abuse. The man's dead. Never speak ill of the dead; that's what our mother always said.”

“I'm trying to find out why he was killed,” said Elena.

“Well, it wouldn't have had anything to do with Marcia,” said Carlos. “She was playing bridge when he got shot. Can you beat that? Porfirio made more money than all of us put together, and some petty thief breaks into his house and shoots him. And you people didn't have a clue. Four years and we still don't know who killed him. Well, I'd say the trail was pretty cold. I hope you're looking for that papal medal. The family would like to have it.”

“If we find it, we'll certainly return it,” said Elena dryly and had his secretary call her another cab. She reclaimed her car and gun, then went looking for Porfirio Cox's sister, Anna Maria

Maitland, who owned a small advertising agency housed in one of the fine old houses on Montana, houses now filled with lawyers' and doctors' offices and places of business.

Anna Maria Maitland was up to her elbows in layouts and insisted that she didn't have time to answer questions about a brother four years dead. The office reeked of cigarette smoke, with two cigarettes burning in the ashtray, although only one person occupied the room. Mrs. Maitland looked as if she'd been tanned by her own smoke, with lustrous black hair pinned up in an elaborate chignon that covered the back of her head. “We've got deadlines here,” she said. “Why are you asking me about Porfirio at this late date?”

“What I'm really asking about is his relationship with his wife, Marcia.”

“She's dead too. Died of a stroke a year ago.”

“I know that, Mrs. Maitland. Do you think your brother abused his wife?”

Anna Maria Maitland picked up one of the cigarettes, inhaled deeply, and squinted through the smoke at Elena. “What's your idea here? You think maybe he beat her up because she had a lover and the lover killed him? I suppose it's possible. Porfirio had women, plenty. He was a very attractive man. And rich. But he wouldn't have liked it if Marcia got a little on the side, though I'm surprised to hear she did.”

“There's no evidence of that. Did you hear rumors?”

“No. So what's this about?”

“My question is fairly simple. To your knowledge, was your brother abusive to his wife?” said Elena slowly.

“To my knowledge,” mimicked Anna Maria Maitland, “I don't know anything about it. Marcia and I didn't get on. I never saw her except for holiday dinners at Mama's. And I didn't say word one to Marcia when I did see her. Why should I? Women who sit around doing nothing, letting their husbands support them—that doesn't do anything for me. I divorced young and started my own business.” She had been studying a layout as she talked and suddenly drew a big X through it.

“You ought to be able to identify with that, Detective. Having a career of your own, I mean. Of course, my mother's never considered me divorced, but that's neither here nor there, so if Porfirio was beating up Marcia every night of the week, I wouldn't know it. It's not something he's likely to have told me over lunch.” She pulled another layout on top of the first.

“How come you're investigating his death now? I always heard if the murder isn't solved within forty-eight hours, you can forget it.” She stubbed out one cigarette and picked up the second.

Elena shrugged.

“Well, listen, since you're looking into the case again, maybe you'll find that papal medal. If you do, I'd like to have it. Porfirio always told me he'd leave it to me in his will. So just give me a call if you find it.”

“Mmm,” muttered Elena and went on her way. She glanced at her watch as she walked toward the car. It was four-thirty, and she should have been off duty a half hour ago. Tomorrow she'd try to find some of the Stoltzes' neighbors. She'd done a lot better with Cox neighbors than with the Cox family. As she started the car, she wondered if Leo would be at headquarters. She'd like to talk over her latest discoveries with him. Of course, he might have gone home, or he might be out organizing his tap-dancing extravaganza.

As Elena entered the department, she stopped to say hello to Carmen, the receptionist, and describe to her Anna Maria Maitland's hair style, a subject that always engaged Carmen's interest.

“I wish I had a photo,” said Carmen, whose ambition was to own her own beauty parlor. She'd been a hairdresser before she went to work for the police department.

Manny Escobedo caught Elena there and said, “Good, I've got someone to send out.”

“I'm off duty. I just came in to type up my notes.”

“Beto,” he shouted. “You and Jarvis. Take that corpse they found off Lee Trevino Drive.”

“But Manny, I'm still—”

“—working the Potemkin case. Now you've got a new one. That woman who was reported missing two weeks ago, blood all over her kitchen. Well, someone just found a body in the trunk of a car in a garage on Jack Fleck. The I.D. in the purse says it's her.”

Elena sighed and agreed, going out with Beto Sanchez. “Two weeks in the trunk of a car?” she complained. “This is going to be fun.”

“It's O.K.,” said Beto. “I picked up a couple of masks. But I sure do hate to catch this kinda case right at dinner time.”

Elena nodded, thinking wistfully of the dinner her mother had probably prepared, which Elena would have to eat cold with the stench of the long-dead in her nostrils.